A Series Of Unfortunate Events, Frye Style
by MaybeNextTime.I'llWalk
Summary: A collection of one-shots in which the Frye twins have terrible luck and nobody honestly has any idea what to do with these two. ACCEPTING REQUESTS.
1. Heists Gone Wrong

Hello all! Welcome to A Series of Unfortunate Events, Frye Style! This work is going to be a lengthy (I hope) collection of one-shots and short stories featuring our beloved Frye twins. Mostly, I hope to center on Jacob because he is my boy and I love him, but I am open to other focuses as well. Now, this will be a request based collection, so I might write a few shots from my own mind, but mostly I hope to respond to your guys wishes! I can write whump blood and violence, angst and tears, hurt/comfort and bonding, fluff and humour, whatever really. The only thing I think I totally fail in is writing romance XD So, for your pleasure and to make things a bit easier, I've done one of these thingies.

What I Will Write.

Genres: As said above, I'll write pretty much anything except plotless smut. That it where I draw the line. As of this time, the barest mention of IT in a story makes me backpedal the hell outta that stuff. It's really not necessary to further the story. Sorry.

POVs: I'll mainly write Jacob and Henry POVs for this collection. I can experiment with others, but I'll stick to those two unless asked. I can't write Evie POV, not because I don't like her as a character, but because I find it very hard to get into her head as a writer and, essentially, I can't find her POV. I may experiment with it every now and again, or use it because I think it fits, but generally I'll stay away.

Plots: Most plots I'm good with. I don't do a lot of plotting for oneshots, per sey, most are just little snippets I shove in somewhere they fit okay, but if you have a plot all thought up feel free to share.

Length: Generally I try to keep my shots over two thousand words at least. I don't really have a limit on how many words, except that I feel the longer the better, but not so long it drags.

What I Won't Write: As said above, I absolutely refuse to write anythiny vaguely resembling IT. Even writing kisses makes me uncomfortable, so yea. I also will only write hetero people and relationships. I apologise if that upsets some people, I have no problem with people of various sexual orientations or gender identities, I simply cannot write those relationships and people and do them justice.

So,

Without further ado, I present an example of my writing and the first shot in this work

* * *

"Now, Dick, you remember the plan?"

"Of course I remember the plan, Jacob! I'm not an idiot."

Jacob shook his head, flashing a calming smile, and patted Dick's shoulder, "Of course you're not, Dick. But, just for the sake of my own piece of mind, shall we go over it once more?"

Dick made a heavy, sighing noise that sounded similar to a cat being drowned in a drainpipe and settled back on his haunches in the mud and wet cobbles. They were crouched in one of the small spaces one could find behind just about every building in Lambeth; a tiny alcove between house and wall, or fence, that provided shelter from the prevailing wind and rain and, in this particular case, a fine view of the warehouse across the way. Jacob had wittled a hole in the picket fence some time earlier, now leaning forwards to take a peek at the Blighters aimlessly milling about the loaded supply wagon.

The damp soaked into his trousers as he kneeled in the wet, momentarily forgetting to keep his knees up, and he smothered a sigh. If there was one thing London had more than enough of, aside from Templars, it was rain. At that very moment, a light drizzle was making a pathetic attempt on the city. It wasn't much, just a little spatter, but it was enough to form puddles on the already damp streets and wet the clothes of those foolish enough to set foot outside.

Sheltered as they were, between house and fence, the worst of the weather was kept at bay. But, as Jacob had discovered a few minuted prior, the eave over their little nest had a hole in the plumbing that released an unmerciful drip every three seconds. It had been climbing down his shirt persistently while Dick peered through the hole, observing the prize, and a wet line had made its way down his spine to stop at his belt.

He wouldn't deny the bloody drip might have been partly to blame for his decision to act now, rather than wait a little longer.

Leaning back on his heels, he pulled his eye away from the hole in the fence and turned his attention to Dick instead. The Rook was fresh off the streets, little older than Jacob himself. He was a nervous soul, but desperate to prove himself as a member of the ever growing Rooks. Jacob had chosen him for this job partly in the hopes of building his confidence some, the older lads had more important tasks to take care of. Partly.

Also partly because he was fast and slippery.

Puffing a breath in his cheeks, Jacob offered the wily man another reassuring smile, shifting to alleviate the numbness in his aching calves and ankles. Crouching in the damp, muddy streets for two hours straight was murder on the muscles.

"Right," he rubbed his hands together, ignoring the soft clank of his gauntlet fingers hitting the brass knuckles adorning his right hand, "I'll move in first and draw their attention. Lure them away from the wagon. When you hear my whistle..."

He waved a hand in a rolling motion, cocking an eyebrow in prompting. Dick picked up on the signal like a setter on a scent, a grin breaking out on his thin, pointed face, "I scoop in and nick the horses."

Jacob chuckled, "Preferably with the wagon attached."

Dick blinked for a second, his head tilting in his odd habit, before he caught on and chortled, "Yessir."

Jacob quirked a lopsided grin, clapping the Rook on the shoulder and rocking on the balls of his feet, "Good man."

His toes tingled with the sensation of blood flowing back into his cramped muscles as he moved to his feet and stamped about a little. His plan was to come at the Blighters from the south end of the street, drawing their attention as far as possible away from the little alcove Dick would remain concealed within until Jacob gave the signal.

The only problem therein, lay in the form of the house they had been using as shelter. To get around to the south, Jacob was required to climb over it, in all its slippery stone glory. Any other day, it wouldn't have proven a problem. He would have scaled the house in a heartbeat had he not spent the last two hours crouching in a cold hole with little leg room and even less breathing space. His body was tight and cramped, not to mention the second he rose above the level of the fence the drizzle was going to impede his vision.

Briefly, he entertained the notion of simply grappling to the roof, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Too noisy, too obvious. He couldn't afford to alert the Blighters to his presence just yet.

Aware of the fact Dick was watching him curiously, he puffed another breath and stomped both legs once before closing the tiny distance to the wall and seeking out his first handhold. The house was constructed with wooden beams jutting out of the stonework every few meters, which made the task easier, but the wood was old and moldy, and decades of rain had made it slimey and slippery.

It took far longer to reach the top than he would have liked, his gloves covered in a fine layer of ooze by the time he hauled himself onto the tiled roof. The drizzle had penetrated his trousers and his socks felt vaguely damp inside his boots. The only saving grace was his jacket, hardy leather rejecting the rain and cold both.

Removing his cap and shaking it out before placing it inside his coat, he lifted the dark hood from inside the collar, perched on the edge of the roof and watching the Blighters go about their unsuspecting business. He smiled a little, flicked his hood over his head, and ghosted down the opposite side of the building to emerge in the street, south of the warehouse and just out of eye range.

Adjusting the gauntlet over his forearm, he slid the brass knuckles back into place, having had to remove them for the climb, and sauntered into the warehouse through the open doors. The wagon horses nickered softly at the stranger moving past, and it was only that which alerted the unobservant sentry to his presence.

"Hey! You. You shouldn't be here!"

Jacob grinned, his teeth a white line in the shadow of his hood. The cowl concealed his face, that of the leader of the Rooks. This warehouse was one of only three Blighter handholds left in Lambeth. The Rooks had washed through the region like a flood, and within a matter of days the majority of Blighter activity had been reduced to a trickle.

Of course, this poor chap with the broken nose and cauliflower ear wasn't to know his misfortune.

"Hallo," Jacob greeted, filling the single word with as much enthusiasm and eagerness as he could, "I wonder, could you tell me where your boss is?"

Broken Nose faltered, uncertainty in his eyes as he caught the glint of light on brass as Jacob flexed his right hand experimentally. He glanced towards the storage room at the back of the shed, just a minute action before he corrected, but Jacob had been trained to see minute details.

He broadened the grin already plastered to his lips, "Thank you. Now I have just one more thing I'd like to say."

The solid weight of a two hundred pound man plus brass slammed into poor Broken Nose's jaw, snapping his head back with a crumpling sound that rendered him senseless. Jacob watched innocently as the man toppled, the wagon horses snorting in alarm at the sudden movement in their peripheral.

Jacob spread his arms, raising his voice to a shout and clearly displaying the bronze on his fingers, "Excuse me, everyone, I think this man has had a terrible accident."

* * *

Jacob led the Blighters on a merry dance down the street away from the warehouse. All the while he spouted a litany of taunts, jibes and a variety of namecalling that would have even the stone hearted Evie blushing.

The string of barbs had his little group of friends quite impressively riled, their red faces contorted in odd expressions as they made ungraceful lunges for him. Jacob dodged around them easily, as sly as a cat and fast as one too. He easily ducked under a clumsy sidecut, feeling the momentum of the swing ruffle the top of his hood, and surged back to his feet with a series of rapid blows to the aggressor's sternum.

Despite his shorter stature, Jacob was a muscular man, and like his companion had earlier, the Blighter felt the full weight of the trained assassin slam into his chest, and toppled back with a great woosh of air.

Jacob nimbly danced around the group that had now caught up, thanks to the brief skirmish, brass knuckles flashing on his fingers. He grinned underneath the hood, enjoying the game perhaps a little too much. What did he care, though? His plan was working without a hitch, for once, and in a matter of minutes the warehouse would be empty of all goods and the supplies would be safely on their way to the nearest Rook stronghold.

That thought in mind, he let out a sharp, shrill whistle. The noise was peircing, and it halted the Blighters in their tracks for a moment, startled. Jacob spread his arms and flashed his teeth, playing the whistle into his little act. "Come on, then. I don't have all day to play tag with you lot."

The drizzle had gotten a little heavier since his slippery climb up the side of the little alcove, creating a fine mist in the air that seemed to cover everything. For Jacob, it provided little problem, his vision was impeccable whatever the weather, but for the poor sods, irked and irrational, the rain proved to impede their sight of him.

Nevertheless, one came at him, a bulky fellow Jacob had named Knocker Knees several moments back. He had a rather square face, with a squashed up nose and tiny eyes. Of course, his knees were bowed in the middle so they looked like they might knock together at any moment.

Jacob smothered a chuckle and retreated back another few paces, leading the gangsters even further from their warehouse. Knocker came after him, an angry growl slipping through his thin, beard covered lips, and Jacob skipped a step to the side to avoid the heavy-handed uppercut sent his way. It amazed him that none of them had pulled a gun yet. Perhaps the weather was too bad, they worried they might shoot an ally, or, more likely, they just didn't have any.

He smiled at that thought, stepping up close and personal to Knocker, crunching on toes and inhaling the scent of unwashed man, and delivered a stunning roundhouse. This time, he wasn't able to finish the job, as another, mousy nosed twerp stepped up and tried to nail him from behind.

He rolled out of the way in time to avoid the blow, but a harsh sting cut through his forearm and he glanced down to see a tear in his coat and blood welling in the hole. At the same time, he caught the glint of steel in Mousy's hand. His eyes hardened as he flexed his fingers around the solid weight of the brass knuckles.

"So you found your toothpicks at last."

* * *

The second Jacob let go the signal, Dick shot underneath the fence through the rotting hole near the floor and slunk across the road to the open warehouse.

He had watched with glee and a little awe as the Frye walked into the midst of the Blighters like he owned the place, proceeding to gather as much attention as he could with a barrage of abuse that had Dick stifling a laugh, and more importantly, the Blighters throwing reason out the window to chase down the cheeky Rook.

However, the group of gangsters and Jacob had disappeared some minutes ago, the mist swallowimg them up. Dick could still hear the occasional drift of a voice in the drizzle, though, a passing insult here, a cheeky taunt there, that reassured him Jacob was alright.

Slipping into the warehouse, he glanced around nervously, his eyes alighting on Jacob's first aquaintance, prone where he had been taken down. Dick grabbed him by the armpits and hauled him out of the way of the door, unwilling to trample the man despite his questionable loyalties.

That done, he turned his attention to the wagon stationed in the middle of the wide open warehouse. The horses stood calmly where they had been left, heads down and blowing softly, their warm breath creating steam. They were older animals, used to the life they led, and they made little complaint as Dick checked the wagon was secured properly and hoisted himself onto the bench.

Clicking his teeth to wake the animals up, he gathered up the long reins and slapped them experimentally. The old horses seemed to sigh, shaking themselves out before picking up a slow walk. Dick tsked and clicked his teeth again, repeating the slap of the reins with a little more force as they moved out of the warehouse and turned south.

The horses picked up a trot, long and loping, and Dick squinted into the mist in an attempt to pick out Jacob amongst the dark shadows up ahead. Several dark shapes lay on the ground, and as he drew closer Dick could make out the small puddle of blood beside one. A small kernel of fear dropped into his stomach as he looked about sharply for Jacob, praying it wasn't his leader sprawled in the dirt, bleeding his life away.

But no, he could hear sounds of fighting up ahead, a short scream alerting him to the fact Jacob was still fighting fit. He grinned, relieved and exhalted both, and cracked the reins again. The horses responded with displeased grunts, but picked up the pace nontheless, clanking and rumbling as they closed the distance between the wagon and Jacob.

They appeared as if from thin air, materialising from the mist in the space between one second and the next. Jacob was caught in a feirce grapple with a Blighter brute, a blade hovering between them as Jacob pinned the fellow to the wet cobbles. Dick let out a shout, shuffling the reins into one hand and pulling his revolver from its holster. He had never been a very good shot, and the bullet whizzed past harmlessly, but it provided a momentary distraction, and Jacob used it to plunge the knife into the brute's shoulder.

The man howled and released his grip on Jacob's collar, allowing the Rook to roll gracefully to his feet and bow to those few Blighters still standing.

"Gentlemen and ladies it has been a pleasure, but alas I must depart."

Dick wasn't quite sure how he did it, but somehow the Frye managed to position himself perfectly for grabbing ahold of the wagon as it trundled past and slinging himself up onto the barrels stacked on the back. He knocked back his hood and slid his cap back onto his head, dipping it to the furiously shouting Blighters now running after them.

"Give my regards to your boss!"

His punchline delivered, Jacob slung his legs over the barrels and slid into the seat beside Dick, clapping him heartily on the shoulder. His breath was a little short, but aside from that he seemed unharmed.

"Excellent work, Dick. Your timing couldn't have been better." He praised, removing the brass knuckles from his fingers and slipping them into his coat pocket. Dick felt a grin breaking out on his lips, the one Jacob was wearing seemed infectious.

"Thank you, Gov'ner." He beamed, clicking his teeth at the horses to keep them moving. They were travelling via the backroads to the Rook stronghold in an attempt to avoid any more Blighter confrontations than necessary, but the streets were only just wide enough for the wagon, and the horses were nervous of the small space.

Dick allowed them to drop back to a quiet trot, guiding the big wagon through the narrow alleys carefully. Jacob clambered back onto the rear to ensure they didn't chip the tail going around any of the multiple sharp corners.

Finally, they emerged on the wider roads, being forced to pull up due to the heavy flow of carriages and carts piling up on the cobbles. Jacob sighed heavily, slipping back onto the bench, and leaned back against the barrels stacked behind them.

"Bad timing." He mumbled, leaning forwards after only a moment and picking at a tear in his coat. Dick noticed a red stain on the sleeve around the tear and felt a spike of concern.

"You bleeding, mister Frye?"

Jacob's head snapped up, a guilty expression chased quickly off his face by an easy grin. He waved a hand, "Just a scrape," he assured, "One of the buggers got lucky with his knife."

Dick relaxed a little, then, peering over to see it was, in fact, just a scratch. A hole opened up in the traffic, then, and he urged the horses forwards once more.

* * *

Jacob saw the Blighter carriage roughly two seconds before they saw him. Cursing loudly, he reached over and slapped the reins harshly over the horses rumps, much to Dick's surprise and chagrin, and pulled the Rook down as a bullet splintered the barrel behind them. No words needed to be exchanged between them after that, and Jacob retreived his pistol from its place in his belt and cautiously raised his head above the barrel tops.

The wagon thundered loudly over the cobbles, rocking from side to side as the horses lurched and lunged through the streets thick with traffic. In a smaller carriage with only one horse, the Blighter's held the advantage. Jacob cursed again, checking the load in his pistol and took a breath before vaulting over the barrels and surging to his feet.

The swaying motion of the wagon under his feet played havoc with his aim, but he managed to get off three relatively decent shots. They chipped the carriage dangerously close to its two passengars, sending up a spray of splinters. That only served to make them angrier, though, and Jacob was forced to flatten himself to the barrels as a bullet whizzed dangerously close to his face. He felt a thin trickle of blood run down his cheek and adrenaline shot through his veins, widening his senses and focusing his vision.

Without warning, he shot into a kneeling position, folding one arm across his chest and propping the tip of his pistol on his bracer. Sighting, adjusting and firing took the span of three seconds, and the Blighter holding the reins tumbled from his seat with a bullet betwix his eyes. Jacob felt a thrill of satisfaction as he watched the carriage veer horribly off course, the surviving Blighter forced to leap from the bench to avoid the crash that was sure to follow.

He felt a brief stab of pity for the horse, but pushed it aside quickly as he lifted a hand to his cheek, hissing as he felt the long scratch across his cheekbone. Wiping away the blood with his already torn sleeve, he turned back to the front of the wagon...

And cursed again as he saw a carriage, painted in garrish red and black of the Blighters, heading straight for them. He realised a moment too late what the gangsters planned to do, and his wild lunge for Dick's collar was a desperate action.

Throwing his full weight into tossing the Rook aside, clear of the wagon, he lost his balance and fell harshly on his side, the edge of a barrel digging into his ribs.

The oncoming carriage grew closer by the second as its passengers bailed out the sides, rolling as they hit the cobbles, and in a last ditch effort to get free, Jacob rolled.

In hindsight, it was one of his worse escape plans.

He hit the cobblestones with a bone shuddered impact, the air leaving his lungs in a whoosh as the wagon thundered on millimeters from his head. His hat was long gone, and the momentum of the wagon wheels rolling past threw his hair in all directions.

Coughing harshly, he lay on the road for a moment, winded and aching in every bone on his right side. A horrendous crashing sound exploded through the street, and the sickening screams of the horses as they collided with each other was enough to turn his stomach. He felt another stab of pity for the poor animals, regretful that he had caused their untimely fate.

Gradually, his limbs started to function again, and he painfully pulled his legs under him and lurched awkwardly to his feet. The crowd had gathered around the scene of the crash, several long meters further down the road, and he half hopped half stumbled into the dark reprieve of an alley to avoid the eyes that would inevitably start searching for culprits.

His right shoulder throbbed painfully, an old friend, and experience told him the bone was probably dislocated. His hissed through gritted teeth as his skimmed the fingers of his left hand over the top of the joint, feeling the wrongness of the angle, the sharp butt of bone where it shouldn't have been.

He sighed heavily, resting his head against the wall he was leaned up against, and took a moment to wonder for Dick. He hoped the Rook had made the jump alright and gotten away, hopefully far away by now.

He should leave, too, he knew. Aside from the shoulder, he was fairly certain his injuries were only bruises. Briefly, he entertained the idea of putting the bone back in himself, but cast it aside quickly. Too risky, he needed the arm to be properly healed, not a hack-dash job he'd done himself.

He sighed again, pushing off the wall and wincing as his bruised body complained loudly. There would be no climbing shortcuts today, just a slow, painful shuffle back to the train in the heavy drizzle and the muddy streets.

* * *

Henry let out a quiet sigh, closing the book set on the counter before him with a gentle touch and turning to place it back on its shelf. Several hours had been spent pouring over the ancient manuscript for some reference to the Shroud, yet all he had found was unhelful yibber yabber.

He drummed his fingers on the counter, glancing around the curio shop for something to catch his inspiration. The heavens were unloading their burdens on the streets once again, a steady roll of rain beating on the roof of his little shop, and he sighed resignedly while watching the hurried figures moving past outside the shop window.

Perhaps, he would wait until the rain eased and then head back to the train. He had several tomes awaiting his eye in the study there, too. Besides, he couldn't help but smile, Evie might appreciate some company.

Jacob had left earlier that morning, shortly after yet another heated discussion, if that were even the right word. The twins seemed to fight more than anything else, now. In the beginning, there had been a line between them, it was true, but lately Henry felt that line had widened into a ravine.

Yes, he thought warmly, Evie would be glad of a sympathetic ear, and a hand with the piles of old books they had collected for studying the Pieces.

A loud bang crashed through his thoughts like a gunshot, pulling his attention to the door to the shop. A rough curse came from the other side of the wood, followed by another sharp rap.

"Greenie! Open up!"

There was only one person in all of London who called him that, and he felt relief and despair both as he recognised Jacob's voice. If the younger twin was here at the shop, Henry couldn't very well leave him to his own devises and travel to the train.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Jacob, well, not entirely, it was just that he knew what the younger Frye was like, and was loath to test fate by leaving the man alone in the curio.

"Greenie!"

Henry stifled another sigh and stood, walking around the counter and crossing to the door. Briefly, he wondered why Jacob didn't simply enter, the door wasn't locked, but he was more focused on getting the thing open before the Frye broke it down.

"Alright, it's open." He began, watching the floor as the door swung inwards to make sure it didn't hit anything. When he looked back up, he started in surprise, letting out an involuntary gasp.

Jacob cracked a grin, the gash across his cheekbone splitting and oozing fresh blood at the movement. "Afternoon. Mind if I come in? Little wet out here."

Henry snapped his mouth shut quickly, stepping to the side hurriedly, "Of course, please, come in."

Jacob nodded gratefully and stepped inside, limping badly on his right leg and wavering slightly as soon as he took his weight off the support of the doorframe. Henry shut ajd bolted the door before turning to the Frye, confusion amd concern in his eyes as he got a good look at the other assassin.

Jacob looked like he'd been dragged to hell and back. His jacket was torn in several places, stained with mud and a disturbingly rich red. His pants faired little better and his normally slicked back hair was gone to the wind, hanging in his face and dripping water as he turned to face Henry with a wince.

"Don't supposs you have a chair in here?" He asked, holding his right arm stiffly bent over his chest, with his keft hand supporting the wrist. Henry nodded, slightly shamefaced that he had been too preoccupied getting a look at the Frye's injuries to see he needed to sit down.

Unfortunately, by the time he pulled a chair out for Jacob to sit, the man had already found a seat on the floor. Whether the adtion was voluntary or not was anyones guess, but he ended up leaning heavily against the counter, his head lolling to one side.

Henry crouched worriedly, dropping the satchel he had also grabbed while retrieving the chair, and patted his uninjured cheek softly. "Jacob?"

The man stirred immediately, his face snapping up to meet Henry's gaze. His eyes were slightly out of focus, but he was lucid. He waved a hand in the air, wincing as it invariably caused him pain. Henry didn't wonder; it looked like he'd been run over by a wagon. Or several.

"Needed to sit, for a minute." The Frye slurred, using his left side entirely to push himself into a straighter sitting position, letting his head rest on the counter as he hissed softly.

Henry nodded, turning to the satchel and placing it at his side, "I can imagine." He agreed sympathetically, running a critical gaze over the other man.

Jacob nodded once, before shaking his head a little, like a man trying to shake off a hangover. After a moment, he seemed to regain a little clarity, gesturing to his shoulder vaguely.

"Shoulder's out. Didn't want to fix it myself." He explained shortly. Henry frowned, shifting to get a better look at the affected area. He could see by the lump under Jacob's coat that the shoulder was, indeed, out, but he wouldn't be able to do anything with the thick layers of leather and fabric over it.

He sighed, reached into his belt for a knife. Jacob eyed him warily, the blood dried over his cheek mixing with the fresh trail to give him a pale, garish look.

"I hope you don't expect to cut my coat with that."

Henry gave him a confused look, "Of course. I can't fix your arm through all these clothes."

Jacob had the audacity to shake his head quickly, wincing as he applied pressure to his shoulder unintentionally. "No cutting. I can get it off."

He proceeded to try and do so, and somewhere amid his attempts to reason that the coat was already torn and holy, Henry found himself attempting to help.

He told himself he was just doing it to stop Evie from having to struggle with her brother. He wasn't entirely comfortable with the younger Frye twin just yet, the man swung in unchartered curves that made little sense to either his sister or Henry, and not knowing how the man might react to a given stimuli made him nervous.

However, by the time Jacob got the blasted jacket off and was back to sitting against the counter, his arm cradled to his chest and tight, whistling breaths escaping from him as, Henry imagined, he regretted his stubborness to keep the coat, he seemed a different man. Quieter, more predictable. Everyone reacted the same to pain, Henry supposed.

Now able to get a proper look at the shoulder, Jacob had plenty more shirts that he would not mourn the loss of this one's right side, he sucked his teeth in concentration. The disloaction was relatively simple, just a matter of pulling the joint back into the correct position. Henry had praticed the theory a dozen times, only problem being this wasn't theoretical, it was Jacob. Evie's brother.

He puffed a breath, glanced at Jacob's drawn face, eyes watching him expectantly, and rolled up his sleeves. Placing his hands in the appropriate position, he took a deep breath, attempting to alleviate the lump in his stomach, without much luck, and pressed against the bones.

Jacob let out an ungodly bellow, like that of a wounded bull, and suddenly Henry found himself with hands on thin air and Jacob halfway across the room. The Frye had lurched to his feet, one hand on his shoulder, the other pulled close to his chest.

Henry stood silently, his pulse thundering in his ears as he worried he had done it wrong, putting the bone in the wrong position. Slowly, ever so slowly, Jacob let the arm drop to his side, twisting it experimentally. Henry let go a massive breath he hadn't realised he was holding as the Frye nodded and turned, pained lines still creased across his face, but a smile there as well.

"Thanks, Greenie."

He nodded mutely, still recovering from the shot of adrenaline to his system that he hadn't needed. But Jacob was reaching for his coat then, moving to shrug the material over his shoulders, and without thinking, Henry moved forwards to place a hand on his forearm.

Jacob raised an eyebrow, question in his face, and Henry ran a glance up and down his person.

"What about your other wounds?" He questioned, aware of the way Jacob was regarding him with what could only be called bemusement.

Jacob scoffed, stuffing his right hand into his pocket and leaving it there. "Just bruises, Greenie. We both know you don't want me here too long."

Henry couldn't deny that was true, but the state Jacob had been in only a few moments before made him wonder about the truth in the Frye's words. It was highly possible it was only the adrenaline of having his arm out back in was making him feel better. Dark bruises lined most of the skin Henry could see, and the gash on his cheek was still bleeding sluggishly.

"Relax, I'll be heading straight back to the train and taking a hot bath," Jacob grinned, "I'll try not to interupt."

Henry did not miss the implication in his voice and words, stammering over his reply and giving Jacob the perfect opportunity to slip out the door, a chuckle on his lips and rain through the door.

Henry sighed and looked back around the curio shop, resigned once more.

Fryes, he thought tiredly.

* * *

By the time Jacob got back to the train, he was cold, exhausted and miserable.

The rain had onky gotten heavier in the last hour, and water had crept into his coat through the seams and tears. His right side was one big lump of agony, and waiting for the train to pull into station, as he knew it would in less than a minute, he barely resisted the urge to just sit down and go to sleep right there.

Years ago, back in Crowley, Ethan had put them through vigorous conditioning drills every day. Each grew progessively more difficult than the last, and most days it was all the twins could do to hobble to their beds and collapse. Still, those exercises had built up a strong pain tolerance over the years, and it was that which Jacob thanked in that moment.

The loud toot of the train jerked him out of his semi dozing state, jolting him back to the present with a hiss as his side burned and he shuffled awkwardly onto the train. He sighed softly as he realised he'd entered the wrong carriage, turning and heading towards his own car, rather than the study he had somehow ended up in.

"Jacob?"

He started, spinning on the spot to fix his gaze on the source of his sister's disbelieving voice. The action made his head spin and he grunted slightly, leaning against the wall for support.

Evie had one hand splayed on the open page of her book, running her eye up and down his form with a mixture of disbelief and concern.

Jacob smiled tiredly, closing his eyes for a moment, "Hallo, Ev." He was too exhausted to bicker tonight, the lump of misery his body had become throwing a dampner on any ire he might have felt.

When next he opened his eyes, a gentle touch was at his cheek and Evie stood inches away from him, a softness in her eyes he hadn't seen for what felt like years and a tenderness to her voice.

"Oh, Jacob," she whispered, tracing a finger over the gash on his cheek, feather-light, "What have you done to yourself?"

He huffed, winced as every muscle in his body protested, and shifted his weight more to his left side, "You should sse the other guy...s."

Evie barely supressed a snort, shaking her head and grasping his wrist, "Come now, sit and let me take a look at you."

He obeyed without complaint, letting her lead him to a spare chair and sit him down in it. The coat stuck to his wet shirt, but he refused to let her cut it either. On the bright side, the cold had numbed his shoulder.

Evie eyed the slashed shirt suspiciously, lifting her gaze to Jacob's tired eyes as she inspected the swellung ariund the joint. He shrugged lopsidedly, neither confirming or denying anything.

Evie let out a breath, tsked quietly to herself, and rested a hand on his knee. He realised, somewhat belatedly, that time had ticked onwards while he shut off, distancing himself from the unpleasantness of it all.

He was cold, the wet fabric of his shirt sticking to him like glue, and before he could think about supressing it, a shiver ran up his spine.

His entire body exploded into agony with little warning. He whimpered quietly, leaning forwards to rest his head on Evie's shoulder. She stiffened slightly, her shoulder tensing up under his brow, but after a moment, she let out a breath and relaxed.

Gentle fingers came to card through his hair, pushing the wet strands back against his head. Evie rested her head on his, pressed her cheek against his hair, and breathed quietly.

The silence was filling in a way he couldn't explain. The simple closeness of his twin seemed to banish the hurts and aches from his weary body. He inhaled shakily, let it out in a deep woosh that stung his ribs.

"I've missed you."

Evie's hand paused for a second, her fingers tangled in his hair, before he felt the shift of her face as her lips tugged upwards a little.

"I've missed you too."

* * *

And thus it begins! I apologize for any spelling mistakes throughout the work, I'm still trying to get used to my new keyboard. Please send me your ideas for an Unfortunate Event(s) for our beloved Fryes! Reviews are loved and constructive criticism is amazing but please don't flame me. I'm just a wittle cupcake.

"What was that explosion?"

"Explosion?"

" _Evie_."


	2. Fifteenth Year

Hello again! So happy to be posting again so soon! This one is for Potato Guest, who asked for "Something with sibling rivalry or their childhood." Your wish is my desire, so I have managed to include BOTH in this little snippet. It didn't turn out quite like I planned, but I'm happy with it for now. Hope you like it!

* * *

The morning of their fifteenth birthday dawned cold and foggy, but clear skied. Jacob was up far before dawn, slipping quietly out of his room, boots in hand and footsteps cautious as he moved past Evie's room, and then Ethan's, to get to the stairs. It was easier now, sneaking out. The gruelling training Ethan put them through was helping a great deal in areas Jacob was fairly certain their father didn't want it to.

Honestly, that was part of why he did it. The icy irritation that would slide into Ethan's face every time he realised Jacob had escaped, soundless and unseen because of their Assassin trainibg, their was a great deal of satisfaction to be had.

This morning, though, it wasn't so much a desire to displease Ethan that drove him to crawl from his covers at whatever ungodly hour this was called and sneak from the house, avoiding the creaky floorboards and holding his breath for fear Grandmother might hear him as he snuck past her room on the ground floor as well. Sometimes, it seemed like her senses were sharper than Ethan's.

The morning air hit him like a slap to the face as he shut the door behind him and exhaled heavily. Whatever vestiges of sleep had remained were swept aside by the chilly air. He shivered, regretting his decision to forego a thicker coat, and sat down on the steps to pull his boots on.

He was off with a skip and a bound the second the laces were tied, vaulting over the low garden fence and turning up the thin road into town. The murky fog clung to the ground like jam, thick and muggy, and he frowned as his hair and clothes became gradually wetter, glad for his thick leather boots.

Lights shone out of the mist up ahead, and he grinned slightly as the bright twinkles reminded him of his purpose out here in the freezing cold, and he hopped into a run, mud from the street flicking up behind him as he pounded over the worn cobbles.

He hit the door of the little shop hard enough to wake the dead, cursing loudly as he bounced off the wood and stumbled back a few steps, his shoulder throbbing. He glared at the offending structure, tempted to pull a face. The fog had hidden the building until the very last second, the lights deceptive in the murky conditions.

He sighed, letting out his annoyance with the door, and reached up to rap three times on the wood instead. He was tempted to knock again, bouncing on his toes as he glanced back the way he had come, half expecting Ethan to materialise out of the fog and demand to know what he was doing.

He nearly leapt out of his skin when the heavy bolt on the inside of the door was pulled back, jerking around to face the now open doorway, and dived into the interior of warmth without a word.

"Morning, Jacob," an amused voice chuckled, the door snapping shut again as Jacob basked in the warmth of the shop, edging as close as possible to the fire crackling away in the grated hearth.

"Mornin', Frank." He parroted, turning back to face the door and warm his frozen behind. Frank was a skinny kid, little older than Jacob and Evie, with mousy brown hair and light green eyes. A perpetual grin pulled at his mouth.

Jacob couldn't help but reciprocate the expression, leaning forwards conspiringly, "Do you have it?"

Frank wiggles his eyesbrows, drawing a chuckle from the Frye, and turned to the covered counter. All the shops covered their display wares with solid wood cases overnight, those who could afford it even opting for metal sometimes. It was an unfortunate but necessary precaution.

Frank turned back with a small package in hand, offering it to Jacob with a pleased look. Jacob took the parcel like it was made of glass, carefully unwrapping the brown paper and padding underneath.

A grin lit up his face as his eyes settled on the necklace, a simple silver chain, at the end of which a small, glittering blue stone was cradled in a sturdy clasp. He held it up to the firelight, marveled as the stone refracted the light in a dozen different colours.

"It's perfect." He whispered.

Carefully refolding the package, he slipped it into his coat pocket and clapped Frank on the shoulder, "Thank you, Frank. I'll pay you back as soon as I can."

Frank waved a hand dismissively, "Nah. This one's on me," he smiled as Jacob's jaw gaped, "For your birthday! Besides, I know your old man's tight with the pursestrings."

Jacob made a face, glancing at the old clock on the wall, "Speaking of which..."

Frank chuckled and punched his arm good-naturedly, "Twas good to see you, Jake. Oh, and tell your sister happy birthday from me!"

Jacob paused half-way out the door to send his friend a scandilised look, but Frank was already closing up, a chuckle floating on the air, and the Frye could only shake his head before bolting for home, a hand on his pocket the whole way.

* * *

He got home just in time to crawl into bed, pull the covers over his head and relax before Evie stomped into his room, threw back the curtains and proceeded to stand over him eith her arms crossed.

He groaned into the pillow, feigning grogginess and hoping she couldn't hear how fast his pulse was still galloping after his mad dash home. The package was digging into his hand where he had stashed it underneath the pillow.

Lifting his head, he squinted at her, his vision truthfully impeded by the light streaming into the room directly via the window. He groaned again, flopped his head back down on the pillow, and pulled the blankets over his head.

Evie knew better than anyone what he was like when woken involuntary, and so he had to play the part. He couldn't go about leaping around and looking bright eyed and windswept, as he no doubt had when he scrambled up the drainpipe and picked the lock on his window to get back inside. He was amazed Evie hadn't noticed the fact it was unlocked. Maybe she thought he left it that way.

Either way, she left him in peace after a few more moments, dropping the routine line as she went, "Ten minutes and I'll have your breakfast."

He rolled his eyes as soon as she shut the door, throwing back the blankets and carefully extracting the parcel from under the pillow. His desk had a drawer in which the lock had stopped working years ago, the block jarred into place, but he had discovered that if he pressed down on the handle and jarred the bottom of the desk, it would open.

Quickly, he hid the necklace away in the drawer and closed it again, smoothing himself out and brushing his hair back. It had probably been long enough for him to wander down now.

Evie was just reaching for his bowl as he thundered down the stairs, painfully loud even to his own ears, and he saw Ethan's eyes crinkle at the edges, his perpetual frown deepening.

Jacob tsked, pulling out his chair with a grating sound and flopping into it. Evie huffed and retracted her hands, returning to her own bowl of cooling porridge. Jacob hooked one arm over the back of his chair and ate single-handedly, ignoring the glare Ethan sent his way. Evie only rolled her eyes, used to and exasperated by his antics. He wondered briefly, with a slight pang, if she had even remembered what today was.

He wasn't left long to dwell on it; the second his last spoonful was swallowed, Ethan stood and clapped his hands, "I want you both in the yard in five minutes for training."

As he turned away, the twins exchanged a glace, a mutual feeling passing between them. Jacob felt it was stronger for him, the feeling of tired unease that always assailed him when Ethan announced training. Evie was the star pupil, the favourite. Jacob was just runner up, the spare.

He smothered the bitterness underneath his general act of disinterest, wandering into the yard precisely six minutes later. He pretended not to see the annoyed expression on Ethan's face, nor the displeased one on Evie's.

Their father sighed heavily after a moment, picking up two long staffs from the side of the yard and tossing them towards the twins wordlessly. Jacob caught his with ease, dropping its end on the floor and hooking his ankle over it. Evie fell into a more ready stance, holding the wood beam with both hands and watching Ethan for further instruction.

"May the best assassin win." Was all he said, stepping back and folding his arms over his chest.

Jacob sighed, kicking the staff up to rest in his other hand, and fixed his gaze on his sister. He was hoping today might be different, that maybe they wouldn't be pitted against each other on just this one day. But obviously Ethan had forgotten what today was.

No, Jacob thought as Evie settled into a ready stance, Ethan knew exactly what today was. The day the unexpdcted twin had killed his wife.

He closed his eyes for a moment, closing his hands tightly around the staff and fixing himself in the moment. Evie made a few swings with her staff experimentally, testing the weight, but Jacob didn't bother; he knew the weapons like the back of his hand, had spent hours practicing with every one of them Ethan would let him lay a finger on, in some vague hope he might recieve just a little praise, just a little pride, from the distant father. He had learned better in the years since.

All in, the first bout probably lasted forty seconds. They traded blows, the staffs smacking solidly against each other, before Evie managed to hook her staff under his and fling it from his hands. He watched dispassionately as it landed on the grass and rolled several paces, not bothering to look to know Ethan was regarding him with displeasure.

He retrieved the staff, ran his fingers up and down its length, and settled back into position with a weary sigh.

It continued like that for what felt like hours, but couldn't have been more than one. His muscles ached and half a dozen bruises now decorated his skin. Evie had not gone untouched, though, her own ribs and shoulder would be protesting touch in the evening. He had landed a few solid blows, grinding his teeth as the impact ran up his arms, trying to pretend it wasn't Evie on the recieving end, and just wishing for this torment to be over.

He could feel his bitterness building back as Ethan made small adjustments to Evie's form, shouted tips from the background as they wrestled. Not once was a word thrown in his direction. He could see the apology in Evie's eyes as they locked staffs against each other, a battle of weight he knew he could win. He might have let her, another day, might have eased off and let her overpower him, but today he was tol angry.

He surged forwards with a rush of strength, felt the burning pull through his leg muscles as he threw his weight into the staff, and Evie toppled backwards, her balance lost. He leapt forwards, staff aligned with his arm as he knelt and held the tip to her throat.

Evie was panting, her eyes slightly widened as their faces hovered inches apart. Jacob felt his own breath rasping in and out of his lungs, felt his chest heaving as his tense muscles slowly relaxed, his eyes tearing away from his twin's. He sat back, dared to send a glance Ethan's way, and was immediately taken by a blossom of pain in his gut.

He gasped, pushed back by the momentum of the blow, amd fell back on his haunches, his legs screaming as his muscles strained to support him. Evie was up in a second, the staff she had buried in his side now levelled with his face, and he stiffened, aware of the apology in her eyes, but also the hard determination.

He relaxed, the fight draining out of him in a few seconds, and he let his hands drop to the grass. Evie immediately dropped the staff away, letting it hit the grass beside him, and offered a hand. He took it, of only for the sake of making his ascent easier, and she pulled him up with a grunt.

His side screamed protest, one hand moving to the affected area with a wince, and guilt etched itself into her face for a moment, but only a moment, before Ethan drew her attention.

"Excellent work, Evie. You kept your wits about you even when it seemed your opponent had gotten the better of you."

Evie practically glowed with pride, a smile breaking out on her lips as her attention focused solely on Ethan. The two started talking forms and weaponry, but Jacob heard none of it as hot tears of frustration pricked at his eyes, bitter resentment a heated feeling that started in his gut and spread all the way to his head.

He turned violently, kicking aside the staff as he ran at the wall and scrambled up it, Ethan's shouts falling on deaf ears as he bolted once again. He needed to get away for a few hours, away from the sickening feeling of bitter jealousy that threatened to consume him. He knew Evie was better, she had always been better at everything, always the best.

That knowledge didn't stop it from hurting any less.

* * *

He didn't come home until the sun had set and the street lamps had come on. The house was quiet, Grandmother's soft humming as she sat in her rocking chair by the fire and knitted a new scarf the only sound to break the silence.

The light in Ethan's study was on, a thin line underneath the door, and Jacob crept past silently, avoiding old floorboards like the plague. He crept up the stairs silently, slipping into his room with a relieved sigh. Opposite him, the desk loomed aggressively, its old, polished surface seeming to mock him. He scoffed, glaring at the piece of furniture for a second before he crossed to his bed and threw himself onto it, face down.

He immediately regretted the action, his aching body reintroducing itself after the harsh impact. He groaned softly, twisting his head to the side to stare blankly at the wall, willing the bruises to shut up.

The creaking of the old house in the strong breeze was the only sound for a little while, before the door creaked warningly and he stiffened, straining his ears for another sound. It came in the form of a footsteps, cautious and careful, and he sighed softly, using his knees to adjust his position and take the pressure off his sore ribs.

"Come in, Eves."

Evie huffed, shutting the door and moving over to sit by his feet. She was silent, a certain sense of hesitation about her, and Jacob sighed again, craning his neck to look at her in the half-light. He blinked slightlt as he saw a flash of silver in her hands, speaking before his mind caught up with his brain.

"What's that?"

Evie stiffened, her hand closing defensively over the whatever it was, "Nothing." She mumbled, but Jacob had known her as long as she had known him.

He snorted, reaching down to poke her folded knee, "Liar." He muttered.

He wasn't angry anymore, he'd burned that off on the local bullies and thieves. He was just tired now, a sort of filling exhaustion. Evie seemed to sense it, as she relaxed a little, uncertainly lifting her hand to drop her secret item in his hand.

He brought it back to his face, blinking slightly as he came face to face with a worn shilling, a hole born through the top of it so that a chain could be passed through, creating a necklace of sorts. He couldn't supress a chuckle, running his thumb over the worn coin.

"Top drawer." He murmured. Evie frowned for a moment, puzzled, before Jacob felt the weight of her leave his bed and she entered his peripheral, moving to the desk and, after a moment's thought, opening the jammed drawer.

She withdrew the wrapped gift carefully, placing it atop the desk and cautiousky unwrapping it.

"It won't bite," Jacob felt obliged to inform her, warming the shilling in his hands, already attached to it. It wasn't that special, really, just an old coin on a chain. But, he knew its real worth; it had belonged to their mother. He had seen it in a box of old things hidden in Ethan's study a few weeks ago, told Evie about it. Obviously, she hadn't forgotten.

Evie said nothing as she lifted the stone from its padding, admiring the blue and the colours it cast upon the walls fkr a moment before slipping the chain around her throat and fastening the clasp.

She returned to the bed, then, sitting on the edge, and Jacob mustered the energy to sit up and lean against the wall. He failed to smother a grunt of pain, and Evie's gaze turned guilty once more. He waved a hand, patting the bed beside him instead.

Evie shifted to sit shoulder to shoulder, the her skin warm against his. No words were exchanged, just a comfortable silence stretching between them. Hours could have passed before either of them spoke. At some point, Jacob's hand came to rest over Evie's, his larger fingers resting on hers.

"I'm sorry about this morning, Jacob."

"Happy birthday, Eves."

* * *

"The lab exploded."

"Jacob!"

" _You_ derailed a train!"

"Oh, he did...did he?"


	3. Divided We Fall

Afternoon ladies and gents. I was hoping to get another request, but alas. Anyway, this one is from my own head, kind of brought about because of the last one, kind of something new. Oh, I was also listening to Underground and Bloodlines from the Syndicate soundtrack while writing this. Just saying ;D

* * *

It would have been easier if there was someone to blame. Templars, Ethan, Evie, hell, even himself. Someone to lay at fault for the stillness in his twin, the lack of response as he gently eased himself onto the bed beside her, took her slim hand in his own, calloused and scarred one.

She was pale, her skin a ghastly ashen colour whiile her freckles were dark against the ghostly white of her cheeks. He sighed heavily, a shaking sound, and lifted the pale hand to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles, closing his eyes against the hot tears thqt threatened to spill over.

There was a faint smell of smoke in the air, drifting off his own hair and clothes, the soot still mixed in with his unwashed hair, traces of ash streaked across his cheek. Evie was untouched by comparison, her skin washed clean of the fire, of the blood.

He swallowed, his grip on her hand tightening, his fingers finding the pulse in her wrist. Weak and fluttering, barely a flicker of movement beneath the skin.

The weight of it was crushing, bowing his back and settling like an anvil upon his heart. He bent, her hand firmly clutched within his own, and rested his head gently, oh so gently, on her shoulder, a quiet cross between a stifled sob and a crushed sigh.

* * *

It had been a simple mission (ha!); sneak into ,the brewery, kill the target, get out. Evie had spent hours pouring over blueprints, charting course, then more attempting to get Jacob to memorise the routes. He had, eventually, and they had received Ethan's permission to go through with it.

So far as Jacob had understood, the man running the brewery was corrupt, funding Templar endeavours out of his pocket and refilling it with overpriced beer and underpaid workers. Jacob hated those kind of men, especially when the bastard involved children in his scheme.

Everything had gone without a hitch, getting in, finding the man, slicing through the jugular and ending his pathetic excuse for a life. Except they'd missed the Templars coming to retrieve their next payment.

Jacob proposed they take out the Templars as well, as they hid amongst the rafters, waiting for the opportune moment to escape, but Evie had strictly repeated another of Ethan's favourite sayings, "Stick to the mission, Jacob."

And so they had, fleeing with their tails between their legs like slinking dogs. Jacob always hated that part, slipping away like they were ashamed of what they had done. Where they? If so, why did they do it? He certainly was not afraid to face up to the fact he had ended the life of a disgusting, abusive man who feed himself out of the pockets of children.

A child had seen them slinking back down to the ground floor. Startled by their sudden, and somewhat intimidating, appearance, she had raised the alarm and all hell had broken loose.

Somewhere between fighting Templars who had just moments before discovered their dead ally, and attempting to make their escape, someone had started throwing about gunpowder, someone other than Jacob for once, and one thing had led to another.

Jacob had panicked, cut off from Evie by a dropped beam when the first explosion ripped through the brewery, shaking the floor and releasing a torrent of dust from the rafters. He had tried to bolt, to get back to his siter's side, but the flames had spread like wildfire in the old, dry building and before long he had been left with few paths to safety, gagging on smoke and singed in more places than one.

He thanked whatever gods were listening when he found her, thrown by a blast and protected from the smoke at least a little by her proximity to the ground.

It wasn't until they had got outside, Evie slung over his shoulder as he battled his way through the decimated brewry, that he realised there was blood soaking the back of his shirt. At first, he had believed it to be himself, the light headedness he was feeling a contributing factor, but as he gently set Evie down on the grass, some way away from the husk of a building behind them, the husk of a mission, he had seen the red stain blossomed across Evie's stomach and cold, solid fear had choked him. The rest was a blur.

* * *

The next time he had had real clarity, his cheek had been stinging and his hair wet. He had realised, belatedly, that he was half leaned against the wall, Ethan stood before him with a mix of anger, fear and sympathy that was quite frankly disturbing to see on his stony face.

Ethan took a step back, let his son straighten, though Jacob still used the wall as a support, feeling weak in the knees and tight in the chest.

"Back with us?" Ethan asked, his tone guarded, and Jacob had to snort, though the action awoke the burn in his chest and the acid in his throat.

He coughed, choking on what felt like gravel in his throat. Tears blurred his vision as he fought for breath, a hand rising to his neck as he struggled past the smoke in his lungs. Finally, when it felt like his head was about to explode from lack of oxygen, he pulled in a rasping wheeze and kept it, drawing in another a few second later and gradually straightening again.

Ethan was smiling, the bastard, just a little twitch at the end of his lips, and Jacob barely resisted the urge to sneer at him, deciding he needed his energy for more productive things. Like breathing.

"That's better." Ethan said, a tone Jacob didn't recognize in hi voice, and suddenly he was aware of the red crusting on his fingernails and sticking his shirt to his back.

He froze, eyes widening as he remembered the fire, Evie, the blood. He lunged for the door out of the kitchen to the stairs, knowing his sister had to be up there, but Ethan caught his arm and hauled him back with surprising strength.

"No. The doctor is with her. You've been hysterical since you brought her home. Sit."

Jacob wanted to retort, to say something im his defence, to plead to see Evie, to know she was going to be alright. But he was drained, and Ethan's reinforced tug on his arm was all it took to coax him into crossing the few steps to the table and collapsing into a chair.

He stared at his hands numbly, the dark red flakes drying on his hands a stark contrast to the paleness of his hands. Ethan set down a bowl of water on the table before him, and Jacob needed no further urging to begin furiously scrubbing the accursed red from his skin.

He could feel the hysteria, lingering on the edge of his conscious. His body was shaking, tiny tremors that shook his hands as the water stained pink and then orange. He could still see the blood, even when his eyes told him it was gone, he could feel it, sticky and warm beneath his fingers as he foight desperately to keep it where it should be, to keep his twin, his other half, where she should be. With him, safe, alive, happy.

He drew in a shuddering breath, grasped the towel Ethan had placed beside the bowl with trembling fingers. His hands felt raw, the skin scraped off the bone from his efforts, but the pain was a welcome relief from the horrors his mind was creating.

He simply breathed for a moment, trying to clear his head, to hear the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, the different tick of his father's pocket watch, the footsteps upstairs, of the doctor tending to Evie's wounds.

He clutched the towel tightly on his hands feeling his nails dig into his palm, his knuckles strained under the pressure. Ethan was silent across the table, his hands folded underneath his chin, the picture of calm. Jacob envied him and hated him in that moment, hated the cool, calmness of him, envied his ability to remain calm and level headed while Jacob shook like a leaf in the autumn breeze.

Footsteps descended the staircase and he shot to his feet, towel clutched in his cramped hand. The moment the doctor entered eyesight, his case in hand and his spectacles half off his face, Jacob stepped forwards, questions rolling off his tongue.

"Is she alright? How bad is it? She'll recover?" His voice was a shadow of itself, hoarse and whispering, and he felt a twinge in his chest, ignored it as the Doctor gathered his thoughts, unfased by the barrage of questions.

"She lost a lot of blood, but with the correct care and rest, she should make a full recovery. The wound wasn't too deep, you see." He paused, glancing between father and son uncertainly. Jacob felt like strangling him.

"I am concerned about her head wound though."

Ethan stiffened, and Jacob felt a cold hand of fear squeeze his battered lungs.

"Head injury?" He echoed faintly, little more than a whisper as his imagination ran rings about his common sense. The doctor nodded, placing his spectacles in his breast pocket and shifting his bag to his other hand.

"Yes. She was struck in the head with some force, and has yet to come around despite my administrations. At the present time, all we can do is wait for some sign from her, and keep the wounds clean."

Jacob's throat was tight, his vision tunnelled to little more tuan the skinny man before him. He felt light-headed again, like he wasn't getting enough air, like half of him wasn't even working.

"Can I see her?" He asked quietly, seeing the sympathy in the doctor's eyes, but not fully registering. The man nodded, and Jacob bolted in a second, taking the stairs two at a time and almost slammimg into the wall as he hurried into her room, freezing in the doorway, his heart in his throat as he took in the sight of her; pale, unmoving and silent.

* * *

He didn't know how long he stayed with her, her hand enclosed within his, his larger thumb running over her thin, scarred knuckles. They both bore those scars, but somehow, hers were cleaner, finer. More Evie.

His back groaned when he finally sat up, his eyes bloodshot and aching, a tight pressure in his sinuses that wouldn't go away. His lungs still felt tight, the foul taste of smoke lingering on his tongue. He needed water, his throat parched and dry, but he could not tear himself away from her. Not now.

He sighed softly, ran a finger down the side of her face gently, smoothed back the hair that had fallen over her face, carefully twisting it behind her ear. He used to braid her hair every morning, back when they shared a room. Atfer their fourteenth birthday, Ethan had cleared out the room across the hall that had been previously feilled wth all kinds of miscellaneous junk and that had become Jacob's. He'd always liked that room, the windows providing a view of the countryside around Crawley, the drainpipe outside them a chance to escape, but they had lost somethingnwith the shift, like a piece of a jigsaw lost to the depths of hell underneath heavy furniture.

He ran a hand over the long, brown locks now, letting them slip through his fingers. There were so many things he wanted to say to Evie, so many apologies to make. Their father had driven a wedge between them over the last few years, the separation of their living spaces only the first nudge inside the crack. They had let him, allowing him to divide them, throw them against each other. They had hurt each other because of it, fought over the simplest of things because of that wedge.

He hated that it had taken this to make him realise how far they had drifted.

He ran his thumb over her knuckles again, vaguely aware of the quiet ticking of the clock in the corner, the creaking of the house in the prevailing wind, but more acutely aware of the stillness in the form before him, the paleness of her skin, the lack of life in her face.

"I'm sorry, Evie. For everything. Come back to me...please."

* * *

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

* * *

"I see what you're saying, Evie. We need the Rooks."

"You are not starting a gang... called the _Rooks_."

'#Greeniehelpme'


	4. Sick Sis

So guess who bought the Collector's Guide for Syndicate~? Expect an influx of shots as soon as my beauty arrives and I start replaying the game (cough*actually finishing it this time would be good*cough) XD

Anyways, to commemorate, I thought I'd do something fluffy for a change. It is a bit short, I admit, but don't worry, I have the next chapter floating around in my brain already and it has angst enough for everyone and should be longer. ;)

* * *

Despite popular belief, Jacob was a fast learner. Over the years, he had developed a knack for taking things in quickly, if only to reduce the time he was forced to spend in the company of certain unpleasant company. Despite the original intention of learning quickly, the habit had stuck on after a few months, and if Jacob made the same mistake twice, or three or four times, it was probably intentional, or he simply couldn't see the problem. Stupid? No. Naive? Well...

That aside, it hadn't taken speedy learning nor a trained mind for Jacob to discover the blatantly obvious fact that an Evie Frye with the sniffles was not someone to be trifled with.

Peeking cautiously through the door into Evie's carriage slash study slash bedroom, Jacob puffed a breath in his cheeks, balancing the steaming bowl in his hands carefully as he pusned the door open a little further and stepped through into the car. The train was stopped for the moment, Jacob's ears still rung from the volume at which Evie had demanded that such be so, which made his task of delivering Agnes' broth that tad easier. Not that Jacob didn't have balance enough to cart a bowl of soup on a swaying, jostling train, between cars, it was just that he preferred his hands dry, nd unburnt.

Approaching the bed quietly, he placed the bowl on Evie's desk, managing to find aclear space on the cluttered surface, and crouched beside the bed. Evie was buried under a mound of blankets, little but the top of her head visible above the sheets, and he smothered a chuckle.

"Eves," he whispered, rubbing a hand up and down her arm gently, "You awake?"

Evie didn't respond immediately, a small groan leaving her as she slowly extracted her face from the warmth of her blanket nest and sniffed miserably. Her eyes were bloodshot and bordered with dark rings, her hair frizzed and scattered in all directions.

Jacob couldn't help but grin as she blinked groggily and painfully turned over to face him, tugging her blankets up around her neck and staring at him balefully, "Of course I am."

Jacob nodded, sympthetic to her pain. Since coming to London, it seemed as though all they had done was fight Templars, both physically and mentally, fight each other, fight the weather, and ultimately end up sick for it. He quirked an eyebrow, glancing out the nearby window to see it was starting to rain. Again.

"You have to love jolly old London weather." He quipped wryly, adjusting his weight as his legs started to go slightly numb.

Evie sniffed again, coughing into her blankets, "Do I?" She grumbled, scowling impressively.

Jacob sniggered, not unkindly, and suddenly remembered Agnes' soup.

"Oh, I brought you some broth," he announced proudly, "From Agnes."

Evie smiled slightly at that, watching him as he stood and moved to retrieve the bowl and spoon. Sometimes, he wondered how his sister could possibly have any appetite while she was sick. Whenever he felt the slightest bit unwell, just the thought of food made him want to hurl. Evie, on the other hand, ate like a horse.

Propping herself up on one arm and leaning her pillows against the headboard to lean on, Evie shuffled herself into a sitting position, taking the meal from her twin with a little smile. Jacob shook his head, unable to stop himself mirroring the expression. He had had a feeling some of Agnes' cooking might cheer his other half up.

They sat in silence for a while, the rain pattering on the roof of the carriage in a monotonous rhythm. It was peaceful, calming. Jacob rested his cheek on his fist, seated comfortably on the floor with his elbow propped on Evie's mattress. He almost dozed ofc at one point, blinking himself back into awareness with a start and glancing at Evie out of the corner of his eye to see if she had noticed.

It was nice to be able to sit like this again, in silence that was filling and companionable. He hadn't realised how much he missed it until it was gone, replaced by the hostility and anger that had somehow consumed them more and more since the second they set foot on London soil.

But, he reminded himself gladly, that was over now. Over like Starrick's reign and the Templar stranglehold on London. He smiled to himself at the thought.

Evie set her bowl down with a contended sigh, the spoon clanking on the side. Jacob snorted, amused at her peaceful expression, and raised an eyebrow, "Better?"

Evie sighed, "Much." She replied, folding her arms over her chest and settling against her pillows again.

The silence stretched on, Jacob's arm eventually going to sleep like Evie obviously wanted to, but at the same time didn't want to. Jacob smothered a chuckle as he sjifted his dead limb in an attempt to wake it back up and saw his twin start back into lucidity.

He stood, wincing as his legs tingled briefly, and made a shooing motion, ignoring Evie's puzzled expression.

"Scoot over." He instructed, waiting for Evie to do so, despite her brief hesitation, before plopping himself down beside her on the mattress.

Old habits died hard, and in a matter of moments they had fallen into ones from nearly a decade ago. Back in their little house in Crawley, before Ethan had deemed fit to seperate their living spaces, they had often crawled into the same bed, be it for warmth, comfort, or just the soothing presence of their other half.

Jacob would sit with his back to the wall, a pillow bunched behind his back and one leg hanging off the bed. Evie rested against his side, her hands tucked up underneath her chest and her head on his chest. Jacob chuckled as she nestled against him, letting out a soft breath and resting his face on her soft hair as his arm wrapped around her slim shoulders.

"It feels like an age since we've done this." He murmured, unsure what Evie would say, but unashamed by their closeness. Some might find it strange, but the bond between them was repaired, made stronger by their realisations, by what their fights had shown them.

Evie hummed, curling her legs up underneath her blankets, "Because it has been. Now shush and be a good pillow."

Jacob snorted, feigning offence, but made no move to shift her, only squeezing her shoulder briefly and closing his eyes.

"Sleep well, sister."

* * *

BONUS IMAGINE

* * *

Henry found the twins several hours later, in nearly the same position they fell asleep in, and very quietly draped an extra blanket over both of them before escorting himself out and back to his shop, with a grin that would somehow not go away.

* * *

"Oh, but of course. The Unstoppable Frye Twins. See them nightly at Covent Garden."


	5. Mistakes

I don't even know with this one, guys. It ran away from me. Applogies for the wait, it's been a busy week, but hope you enjoy this Angst fest all the same. Also guys, please, if you have any ideas or wants for a shot in this series, please please _please_ let me know! I love writing these two but my muse is burning out. DON'T LET THE MUSE DIE! ;D

* * *

There was a irresistible, gravitational pull towards Maxwell Roth. He was a man who pulled all the right strings, struck all the right chords. He groomed pride and ego, built confidence from ashes. His aura was as intoxicating as it was insane, a constant fire that never seemed to burn out, never dampened nor dispirited.

Jacob loved every moment of it, revelled in the sudden shower of approval and encouragement he found himself thrust under. It hurt, in a way, that it had been a so-called enemy to come to his side, to understand how his mind worked, rather than his sister, his twin. The pain was little more than a tickle, now, though. They had drifted further and further, and he had become accustomed to the constant disapproval, the anger and resentment always seeming to be sent his way.

Didn't she understand that he only wanted to help? To free London from the Templars stranglehold, to free the people! At every turn, she scolded him, spat on his efforts and shot down his ideas, his every proposition a target to be mutilated. And yet, what was she doing? Hunting down worthless relics of ancient history. One would think she might have been put off by the results of her last meeting with a Piece of Eden, but alas. Evie was stubborn; no matter how many magic lumps of hyperbolic metal exploded in her face, she wouldn't see reason.

So, he acted alone, fought alone. The Rooks stood at his side, ever loyal and steadfast, growing by the day. They were thriving, now, Henry had said as much, and he would not deny he had exhalted in that admission. They had both thought he couldn't do it, Evie and Greenie, but he had proved them wrong this time.

But yet, the Rooks would never be quite the same as a partner, a single person to rely on to have his back. Oh, he knew the Rooks would come to his aid if he asked, would watch his back and cover him, but there would always be something distant about it, always a gap between them. That was how it had to be; gang and leader, two seperate entities.

But with Roth, it was so very different. By rights, they should have been at each others' throats, fighting over control of the gangs, tearing each other apart whenever they got half the chance. But Roth had proved himself a different man, a man that Jacob had found himself trusting, placing in the spot Evie had once claimed. It stung, but in a good way.

Scrambling up the side of the building Roth had chosen as his nest, he laughed breathlessly, basking in the euphoria of his accomplished mission, the slight pinch in his fingers where splinters from the dynamite crates had scraped his fingers numbed by the adrenaline in his system.

Hauling himself onto the roof, he grinned and nodded once to Roth, bouncing in place as he ran one last check over his handiwork from a distance, ensuring nothing was out of place.

"It's ready." He reported, needlessly, he realised, but Roth took no mind, only cracking a smile that made his face twist peculiarly and shifting to the edge of the roof.

"Light 'em up, boys!"

Jacob couldn't see the Blighters below, but he could feel the exalted sense of purpose in the air, the sensation of electricity in the air. It was filling and exciting and new, and he would have happily drowned in it.

He leaned forwards eagerly, watching the workhouse in ready anticipation.

In a matter of moments, everything changed.

He caught sight of the eldest boy first, several inches taller than the young ones who trailed silently in his wake. The lad couldn't have been more than fourteen, but even from that distance, Jacob could see the weariness about him, could feel the sadness in him. The rest were mere babes, bodies too thin and unwashed to be healthy, clothes torn and grimey.

They were moving in a dead line for the workhouse, and in a split-second, Roth's spell was broken.

"Wait!" Jacob screamed, lunging back and catching Roth's arm. He could see the Blighters below pause, unsure of this sudden order. Roth seemed confused, a glint of something Jacob couldn't quite name flashing in his eyes.

"Whatever for?" He demanded, and Jacob could feel the weight of what they had almost done crushing him like a vice. If he had noticed several seconds later, if he hadn't noticed at all...

He shook his head violently, releasing Roth's arm to jab a finger towards the workhouse, feeling his voice crack as he visualised those poor children caught in the destructive stage he had so masterfully set. The dynamite would reduce the building to ashes in minutes.

"There are children in there!" He explained, and felt something shift, like a scale tipping that fraction too far. It ws unnerving, the sudden, poking feeling of unease, like a voice in his head whispering quiet truths he didn't want to hear.

Roth spread his hands, a disgruntled expression on his features but a strange light in his eyes, "Why, Jacob, my darling. Starrick uses child labour to fuel his factories and workhouses! Sorrowful as it may be, we must wipe them out if we wish to cripple him."

In one fell swoop, Maxwell shattered Jacob's illusions. The Frye physically recoiled, disgust and horror both twisting his features as he stared at the man before him with suddenly opened eyes.

"They're just children!" He protested, furiously ignoring the twist in his gut, the stabbing blade of betrayal that buried itself deep inside his chest. Roth waved him aside, turning to lean over the lip of the roof, shouting a command to his Blighters that the sudden rush of blood in Jacob's ears blocked out.

Anger and resentment bubbled in his veins, narrowing his vision to a field of red, and with a strangled cry of denial he flung himself forwards, his kukri sliding free of its sheath with an ease it never had before.

The blade buried itself in solid flesh and bone, the full weight of him crashing into his target, and he barely even felt the concussion in his legs as he lunged back to his feet and threw the blade with enough force to bury it to the hilt in the second Blighter's back.

He turned then, lifting his gaze to the scarred face staring at him from above, the disbelieving cry from Roth only serving to fuel the fire in his chest.

"What are you doing?!"

He glanced quickly to the side, only too aware of time and what losing it would mean. There were at least a dozen of Roth's men stationed around the workhouse, intent on ensuring none survived the explosion, and any one of them could feasibly ignite the dynamite.

Even so, he tried one last effort, some part of him desperate not to lose this one thing he had mananged to find, to gravitate himself to and not have to fear an arguement, a betrayal, at every turn.

"We're not playing games anymore, Roth!" He shouted up, feeling a sickening knot through his insides as Roth's face set into an expression of bitterness and vitriol.

"No. We're not."

Roth disappeared from his sight, moving to the other side of the roof, and every muscle in Jacob's body burned at the speed with which he spun and bolted towards the workhouse. Dimly, some part of him realised he would be too late, another, even smaller part urging him to flee for his own safety.

The explosion ws deafening, cutting through the London noise in a great big boom. Jacob was flung off his feet by the force of it, flattened to the ground breathlessly, mere meters away from the building. His ears rung, a sharp, shrill sound that pierced through his head and brought tears to his eyes.

Despite the sharp needles digging into his scalp, he forced himself to his feet, blinking his vision back to focus, and surged into the burning wreck of the workhouse, ignorant of the flames licking at his coat as he kicked the door in and entered the roaring inferno he had created.

The children were huddled together in small groups, those who had not been caught in the explosion, and they burst for the light the second the door was flung wide. Mentally, he praised them for their quick wit, but he was too occupied trying not to choke on the acrid smoke and the heat that seared his lungs as he tossed aside a fallen rafter to pull the limp form of a young boy free. He emerged back into the air with a great gasp, his chest burning with a tight, bruised sensation.

He forced himself to ignore it as he gently set the unconscious boy down a safe distance from the fire, near the other children, and lunged back into the crumbling building. A quick sweep of his vision revealed three more youngsters trapped inside the burning pit, and he shouldered his way through the rapidly decintergrating workhouse with fervor.

The first was a young girl, little more than eight years old, and amidst the bitter anger he felt that she was even here, he lifted her into his arms and instructed her to hold on. The youngster did, hands fisting in his coat for dear life as she pressed her face against his shoulder and shook in his one-armed hold.

Smart girl, he thought. The coat would prevent her from breathing in the smoke, at least a little.

The second lad was dead to the world, his slight frame trapped underneath a thick beam, and Jacob felt his muscles burn as he lifted the heavy wood with only one arm at his disposal. He coughed briefly, inhaling a great big mouthful of smoke as he unwittingly gasped. The beam was aside, though, and he quickly scooped the feather-light boy into his hold and bolted from the inferno.

The girl refused to release his jacket, even when he had knelt on the grass outside, and he gently tried to pry her away, while the sense of urgency in his chest only deepened. Desperation was rising when one of the other lasses disentangled herself from the group of uninjured children and trotted over, murmuring a quiet whisper into the youngster's ear that had her immediately releasing her grip.

Jacob didn't have time to be grateful, pivoting on his heel and sprinting back into the crumbling building. Half the roof had collapsed in the time he was gone, and he shirked around the smouldering tiles with a hand to his face. The smoke was unbearable now, a thick smog that covered everything and stung his eyes even more than the heat. He prayed the last lad wasn't trapped beneath the fallen roof, a quick sweep of the rubble confirming that he was not, but was rather stuck between the wall and a sizzling piece of machinery.

Jacob felt the metal burning at his side as he forced himself into the small space, stifling a grunt of pain as he pulled the boy up by his arm and draped the thin frame over his shoulder. Finally, he made for the exit one last time, emerging in the daylight with a great gasp of relief. The boy stirred in his arms, coughing harshly, and Jacob felt it safe to set him down on his feet several meters away from the burning workhouse. The lad leapt to reunite with his friends, and Jacob doubled over on himself, hands braced on his knees, and coughed.

His lungs felt blistered by the heat, burning in agony every time he drew breath. Sweat pooled on his face, his hair wet against his dry skin, and soot clung to every item of clothing, and every patch of bare skin.

Turning, he watched what was left of the workhouse crumble in on itself with a great roar of hungry flames engulfing the rotten wood. He straightened painfully, aware of the burns littering his skin, and coughed once more into his hand. The foul stench of smoke clung to him and burned his tongue with its filthy taste, making him wish for nothing more than a cold bucket to pour over himself.

He shook his head, running a hand through his tangled and dirty hair with a heavy sigh that stuck in his chest for a moment. He was exhusted, physically and emotionally spent, and he turned to beat a sorry retreat, conflicted and beaten down, when the crack of a gunshot rang through the air like unexpected lightning.

The youngster fell before he could even process the shot, his brain shortcurcuiting as he watched the small boy topple, thin legs giving out as a burst of red bloomed across his dirty, patched shirt. He felt distanced, disconnected, like a helpless bystander, for a full, numbing moment, before time rushed back into place and he let go an ungodly roar, turning on the Blighter with vision tainted red.

The gangster fell from a single stroke, the hidden blade sinking into the soft flesh of the neck with little resistance. Jacob took a moment to breath, feeling the fire burning through his veins, the hot fury deep in his gut, but in a matter of seconds the red haze faded and he was brought crashing back into reality, the cries of the children deafening to his ears as they shook and shouted at their fallen friend. Half of them were too young to understand, the rest too shocked to even respond, most still choking on smoke and fire, and Jacob felt centuries older as he gently crouched beside the boy.

A moment of sorrow passed over him, grief, anger, resentment, all filling his heart as he carefully, reverently, passed a hand over the boy's sightless eyes, the red stain wet, warm and sickening. Gently, like handling a newborn babe, he lifted the youngster up, cradling him silently as his dirty and scared friends watched on hesitantly, unsure.

Jacob tried to smile, felt it was more of a grimace, and spoke, "He deserves a proper burial."

The words tasted like ash on his tongue.

* * *

Night had fallen by the time he clambered back onto the train, his body weary and his mind numb. The stench of smoke and soot mingled with the beer and blood on his shirtfront, creating a pungent aroma he hadn't the energy to give two shites about. He winced as the bright lights hit his eyes, raising a hand groggily to block them, swaying unsteadily on his feet. The train rocked its way along the tracks, his aching body and unsettled stomach both protesting the uneven, bumpy floor beneath his feet.

"Good God, Jacob! Where have you been now?"

Evie's voice shook him out of his stupor, his hand dropping enough that he could see her, standing stonily in the middle of the carriage, meters away, but at the same time an million miles apart.

He took a deep breath, felt it burn in his lungs, and let it out heavily, not caring that he shook where he stood, that his legs were trembling with the simple task of holding him up.

"Roth is dead." He managed to say, the words sticking in his throat, choking him as they clawed past the smoke and beer that had lodged in the way.

Evie frowned, closing the distance between them and staring at him, judging him. She reached a hand for his arm, to steady him, and despite his best efforts, he flinched. She froze, only for a moment, before he heard her sigh, a great gush of air that was followed by her arms wrapping around him and drawing him in close.

She was warm, comfortably, comfortingly, warm. A stark contrast to the icy front he was always subject to. He melted against her, letting his eyes fall shut as his forehead rested on her shoulder, his body shaking against her, every muscle in his abused, weary frame aching.

"I'm sorry." He whispered into the leather of her coat. He had never been very good at apologies, neither of them had, but this time he felt he had to try. Had to make the attempt to let her know how truly sorry he was, how foolish he had been.

Evie frowned, placing a hand on the back of his head, seeming not to mind the stench wafting off him.

"Jacob..." She didn't seem to know how to continue, and honestly he couldn't blame her. Finally, she sighed, taking his arm and leading him gently to the couch in the corner.

Jacob clung to her like a child to his mother's skirt, knowing he was being selfish, but not capable of making himself care. She sat down beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, guiding his head to rest on her shoulder once more.

"What happened?" She asked gently, rubbing her hand up and down his shoulder.

He took a breath, felt it stick in his throat, and let it out shakily. Before he could second-guess himself, he spoke, the words tumbling from his lips like a waterfall. Evie didn't speak, only held him as he fell to pieces, never pushing when he paused to draw breath or summon the courage to continue.

"I buried the boy next to his mother." He told her quietly, his eyes open but unseeing. All he could see was that innocent little boy's pale face as Jacob set him down in the shallow hole beside his mother's fresh grave.

Evie let out a quiet breath, but said nothing. They sat in the silence, Jacob's mind numb and silent as he leaned against his sister, cold despite the warmth he knew he should be feeling. It was a hard realisation, that of what he had been doing.

"I should have listened to you from the start," he murmured, closing his eyes tightly, as if he could shut out all the wrong he had done, "I just made a mess of things."

Evie squeezed his shoulder tightly, her cheek resting on his damp hair, and he felt her shake her head, "It wasn't your fault, Jacob."

He said nothing, but he knew she was wrong. Everything bad that had happened to London in the last few months was becuase of him. He had been too reckless, too impatient. He had nearly caused an econominal collapse for Christ's sake.

The silence stretched again, nothing but the heavy air settled between them. The weight of Jacob's mistakes out in the open.

Eventually, Evie spoke, her voice little more than a whisper, as if she were afraid to breach the silence.

"Starrick is moving for the Shroud. In two days time, he plans to steal it from a hidden vault under Buckingham Palace and eliminate all the heads of Church and State."

Vaguely, Jacob remembered her saying something about the Queen hosting a ball in a few days time. He said nothing, though, simply waited for her to continue, to condem him, to tell him she wanted to stop Starrick alone.

"I'll need your help to stop him."

He shifted, then, twisting his head to look at her. She was looking back, a thin smile twisting her lips, a strange fondness in her eyes. He stared at her for a moment, felt a little warmth in his chest that he had feared dead long ago.

"Together?" She asked, and despite it all, he couldn't help but feel the hint of a smile, weary and broken, but true, pull at his lips.

"Together."

* * *

"We seem to have made an unscheduled stop."


End file.
